


Umami Tears

by Nanimok



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gun Kink, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, descriptions of food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26493727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: Prompt: I just finished reading Russian Roulette and please I need any content at all with Yassen and guns... Bonus points for fellatio and Yassen/Yasha being very aware of the taste and the danger.(Kinkmeme de-anon.)
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Vladimir Sharkovsky
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23
Collections: Alex Rider Kinkmeme





	Umami Tears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ireliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/gifts).



At some point, Sharkovsky’s eyes started lingering on his body. His touch becomes languorous. Sometimes they’re even tender. Yassen knows he has grown strong, even in his subservience. His skin is clear. His limbs are long and coltish. His face is easy on the eyes. When Sharkovsky gets into his cups—some which Yassen has sipped himself—his hands wander. They thread through Yassen’s hair. They run down the dip in Yassen’s back.

Yassen hates it all. This is just another manner which Sharkovsky exerts his complete ownership over his body. He has imagined slipping poison into Sharkovsky’s cups himself. One that acts slow but kills quick. A painless way to wipe both of them out of the world.

But he never goes through with it. When the anger and frustration fades, and humiliation settles in, only numbness can stifle the aching in his bones.

Yassen wouldn’t even know where to buy the poison to start.

Sharkovsky’s wife is more often away than she is at home. She is nothing more than a forgetful face when she is home, and she never stays for longer than a week at a time. Maybe she’s conducting affairs of her own. Sordid ones—the kind which would leave Sharkovsky sputtering in rage and humiliation. The ones which would emasculate Sharkovsky to his equally small minded peers. Wouldn’t that be the dream?

It’s during one of her trips which Sharkovsky’s attentions begin escalating. His attention to Yassen’s clothes become more critical and peculiar. He would summon Yassen to attend him for bed, helping him undress and pack away his clothes. Many times, he orders Yassen to attend his back while he’s in the bath. In every occasion, he has Yassen unbutton his own shirt to his navel, unveiling the smooth expanse of his stomach and the black leg garters lining his thighs.

Yassen is not dumb. He knows the trajectory of Sharkovsky’s attentions. He is accurately aware of the metaphorical bullet he misses every time he avoids the hunger in Sharkovsky’s eyes.

His luck will only run so far, and it stutters to a halt when Sharkovsky ropes Yassen into one of his drinking hazes.

A business associate had made Sharkovsky angry. So now, half a bottle of wine already in his systems, Sharkovsky gestures for Yassen to kneel in front of him.

“Tell me,” Sharkovsky says, gently stroking the back of Yassen’s head. “Have you ever taken anyone into your mouth?”

Already rigid from the threat of his hand on his neck—because Sharkovsky is never _nice_ or _gentle,_ and there will always be a third reading to his more gracious actions—Yassen slowly shakes his head.

Sharkovsky laughs, ugly and long. The rings on his stubby fingers are sharply cold on Yassen’s skin. “Aren’t you lucky, then,” Sharkovsky says. “That I am a very generous man.”

Yassen dreams of squeezing his hands around Sharkovsky’s throat until his face turns pallid and cold. Outwardly, he doesn’t say anything.

“Hands behind your back and close your eyes,” Sharkovsky says. “You will do as I say and nothing else.”

Slowly, Yassen does as he is told. It leaves him more vulnerable to a barrage of other sensations: the warmth of the heaters inside Sharkovsky’s study, the pungent smell of alcohol in the hair, and the hand at the back of his neck, coming forward to tweak the edges of his lips.

Yassen thinks that maybe that’s it. Maybe it will only be Sharkovsky’s fingers exploring his mouth and teaching him his lessons, but something rounded, cold, and metal touches his face—and he knows, immediately, that it’s the muzzle of Sharkovsky’s favourite gun.

His heart threatens to explode out of his chest like a bullet from a barrel. It’s all Yassen can hear, but he keeps his body still. Any jerky movements could surprise Sharkovsky, and that would be very bad for Yassen.

“Yes,” Sharkovsky says, trailing the muzzle of his gun down Yassen’s cheeks. “Very good. Very obedient.”

The gun trails it’s way to his lips, tracing the curve of his bottom lip all the way up to his cupid’s bow. It stays there—tap, tap, tapping like a clock counting down Yassen’s last moments. Then, Sharkovsky nudges the muzzle between his lips. He doesn’t need to say anything for Yassen to forcibly peel lips apart. As Yassen’s mouth falls open, Sharkovsky pushes the barrel in.

There’s the sharp, bitter taste of gun oil and the slight tang of sulphur. All emphasised by the cold, heavy metal resting on his tongue. When Yassen thinks of sulphur, he thinks of whole eggs with its creamy yolk, smoky-charred asparagus fresh from the grill, and toasted almonds sprinkled on top. Not this black hole aimed for the back of his throat. A bullet poised to rip his flesh while gunpowder sprinkles his throat dry.

Yassen can hear Sharkovsky undoing his zipper. Then, he’s moving the gun in and out of his mouth. Yassen licks the shaft, hearing Sharkovsky’s hum of approval, and hollows out his cheeks. At one point, Sharkovsky keeps pushing the barrel in, until Yassen’s eyes start prickling with tears. He gag as the gun flattens his tongue.

“Keep it down,” Sharkovsky says. “Lick my finger, if you can.”

Yassen darts his tongue out. He meets what must be the trigger guard and a patch of salty skin.

Sharkovsky’s praise is a hiss. “Good.”

He finally pulls the gun out of Yassen’s mouth. Yassen coughs, straining as he swallows big mouthfuls of air.

There’s a hand on his chin. It slides back into the damned spot behind his neck again.

“You’re not done yet. Keep your eyes closed,” Sharkovsky says.

Yassen digs his fingernails into his palm, but his eyes remain, as ordered, closed.

Sharkovsky twines his fingers into Yassen’s hair. He jerks Yassen’s head down. Heat radiates close to his cheeks. The musk—which Yassen quickly realises to be Sharkovsky’s scent mixed with his soap—is stronger here. It’s almost overwhelming.

Right between his lips, with Sharkovsky almost panting above him, is soft, velvety skin.

The salt of his skin is different from any food he’s had before. It’s not flat or strong, like salt on bread, and hits with a different depth, similar to the layers of a well simmered broth. It’s the warmth, and the pulse of a living thing which adds a dimension of taste on his tongue.

Any other person and Yassen would be fascinated. Any other person, and Yassen would be exploring the side of himself that he’s always long suspected. As it was, he refrains from biting down. He licks tentatively. He licks again when Sharkovsky’s hands tighten in his hair.

Sharkovsky grunts. “Slower. This time.”

The next few licks are slower, like Sharkovsky wanted. Yassen packs his mind into a small box, and he places it on the shelf, like a bottle of spice on a spice-rack. He plays with the head of Sharkovsky’s cock. He flattens his tongue on the underside and slowly licks up.

There’s a clear moan. Sharkovsky flexes his finger in Yassen’s hair. “Take me into your mouth,” he says, sliding his cock between Yassen’s lips. “Breathe through your nose. Don’t let me feel your teeth.”

Sharkovsky keeps pushing in, and Yassen feels the strain in his jaw. He keeps his mouth wide and open. There’s panic, as Sharkovsky overwhelms him and constricts his breathing. The head of his cock bumps against the back of his throat. Yassen gags, and his throat convulses, the but Sharkovsky clamps down on his hold. He keeps Yassen there, until Yassen wrangles enough of his breathing that he’s stable.

Sharkovsky’s thumb brushes the nape of his neck. “Good boy.”

He sets a punishing rhythm, taking his pleasure from Yassen’s mouth. Yassen grows familiar with the slickness in his mouth and the throbbing heat of Sharkovsky’s cock. He focuses on the shade of dark behind his eyelids—a shade that is not quite black, but much darker than grey. Anything other than the pulse of Sharkovsky taking pleasure from his mouth.

One sharp thrust, then two, and Sharkovsky’s bucking into his mouth. He pulls out—and there’s wet heat smattered on his chest. Sharkovsky groans and the hold on his head loosens.

Yassen keeps his eyes closed since Sharkovsky hasn’t ordered otherwise. His come grows cold on Yassen’s skin.

Collecting his breath, Sharkovsky wipes his come over Yassen’s chest. He messages it in, and finds a smug sort of pleasure as he tweaks a nipple until it’s smeared.

“I want more tongue next time,” Sharkovsky says, playing the nipple between his thumb and his index finger.

Yassen can feel the bottom of his stomach dropping. Because Sharkovsky is already thinking of the next time when Yassen is already thinking of water hot enough to scald the skin off his body.

“And I want to try that hole for myself in the future,” Sharkovsky says, patting Yassen’s cheeks. “Well done. You are dismissed.”

Yassen stands. He takes two deep breaths and turns towards the door before he lets himself open his eyes.


End file.
